Back in Action

Goodtime Charlie is once again stateside, so please set aside any worries you might have about our nation's future--it is once again in good hands.

What has happened while I've been away from the controls? Mucho.

The financial system has gone to pot, thanks to all the people not smoking it.

Do I sound like my mom when I say that people who risked their savings in the stock market should not have been gambling what they could not afford to lose? Yes.

According to Forbes, there are 946 billionaires in the world, due to the unrelentingly-bullish (til recently) global markets. What goes up must come down, right? Right.
Why can't each billionaire the shady financial system created just give $1 billion back to it? Oh, wait, I know--they're greedy. That's why we're in this problem in the first place...

Is it all as easy as I make it sound here? Nope.


My favorite living writer, David Foster Wallace, forever tortured by his own overbearing genius and armor-piercing powers of observation, gave up his struggles and hanged himself in Claremont, California.


Admittedly, the news wasn't exactly shocking--anybody who has read his writings realized how profoundly he struggled with the dark side of life--but it was certainly saddening. For those of us who actually read books (sadly, we are few), the next several decades just got much bleaker for the novels, stories, and essays that he will not create for our enjoyment.

On the other hand, as his sister Amy said (I'm paraphrasing here), rather than think about how much time we did not get from him, it is better to think about how much time he did give us, how long he held on to life in the face of a catastrophically acute depression. Imagining a life without his work, since I have now been spoiled by it, simply makes me grateful for every bit of writing he did provide.

It is hard, especially now, not to imagine Wallace as somewhat of a real-life Hal Incandenza, the main character of his masterwork, Infinite Jest-- so unbelievably intelligent that he is eventually unable to communicate with others, who hear his eloquent oratory only as unintelligible screaming. How long can a man tolerate that? Life at the top of the intellectual heap is no doubt lonely, and knowing all that is wrong with the world, but being powerless to fix it, must be paralyzingly frustrating.

Wallace hadn't written anything in over a year, which is mind-boggling to imagine, considering his output in the past. I always used to hope he was spending most of his time locked in a basement somewhere, methodically perfecting another Infinite Jest-like, 1000-page epic, and I know I wasn't the only one.

He was a literary giant and he will be missed.


Paul Newman also died recently. Not as relevant to my life as Wallace--mostly just a face on one of my favorite salad dressings--but I did enjoy his performances in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Cool Hand Luke. I'm glad he got to live a long, relatively-healthy, satisfying life, and I feel sorry for his wife of 50 years, Joanne Woodward; that has to be tough. That is all.



In other news, pirates have taken over a ship full of weapons off the coast of Somalia, and are holding it for ransom, currently surrounded by US gunboats.

How could this have happened? I mean, this was not a freighter full of Pampers--it is crammed to the gills with 33 Russian-built tanks, grenade launchers, anti-aircraft guns, ammunition, etc. Could the men onboard not have perhaps used some of their ship's cargo against the surely-outmatched Somali pirates? That might have been a good idea.

According to this article, Kenya--the purchaser of the weapons--refuses to negotiate with pirates or terrorists, and is therefore on the sidelines, waiting for other countries to solve the problem for them. Whether or not Kenya intended to give the tanks to forces in South Sudan--which would violate an agreement they have with the Sudanese government--is up for debate. The curious thing is that nobody in the Kenyan military is even trained to operate a Russian tank, since they buy theirs from us...

[Question: Should the Kenyan government be allowed to keep the cargo if it is salvaged? Or should the tanks be given to coalition forces and used to shell the pirate town of Eyl until all the pirates' SUVs and lawn ornaments are reduced to rubble? Discuss.]

That debate aside, the incident certainly begs the question that if a boatload of armaments is not safe in the water these days, what chance does anybody else have? Answer: Slim.

"Today there are thought to be ten gangs operating around Somalia with as many as 1,000 members. Two years ago there were only about a hundred pirates. Most are based in Puntland, a semi-autonomous region that angles around the Horn. Recent visitors say that the tiny fishing village of Eyl has enjoyed a huge economic boom as the pirates buy luxury 4x4s and build smart new homes. Men with laptops describing themselves as “pirate accountants” come and go and restaurants have opened to cater for more than 200 hostages. In all, 13 ships are under the control of pirates. Two more vessels – a Greek cargo ship and a Hong Kong-flagged vessel – were snatched this week and attacks are reported almost daily."
(from The Times online)

Why has the US Government not carpet-bombed this pirate village yet? They don't seem to have any problem with killing innocent people while 'valiantly' fighting to rid the world of terrorism in every other corner of the world. Maybe the pirates are more valuable as defense-contractor customers? Otherwise, you'd think they could at least stop the flow of luxury SUVs and granite counter tops, just to piss them off...


Enjoy your Tuesday, and stay tuned for tales from Tanzania...

_

Bulletin!

Goodtime Charlie is on assignment in Tanzania until September 28th.
Please act accordingly.


- His Assistant

_

The Not-So-Elusive Serial Killer Demo

Not a day goes by that the unlimited, unforeseen change wrought upon our society by the miraculous World Wide Web is not thrust in our faces while reading...well, anything, be it an online newspaper or a tactile one. Magazines, books, news broadcasts-- everybody's talking about it.

The unavoidable Big Brother potential of this recent, sweeping technological advancement has resulted in the near-realization of the Madmen's wet dream-- targeted advertising. Targeted like never before, tailored to the individual user. No ad space wasted on the wrong audience. Efficiency. Soon. Once we get those pesky privacy laws out of the way!

Well, in the meantime, I hope those sad, overpaid men (and a handful of women, let's be honest) who make all the decisions at the handful of 'cutting-edge' agencies have their hairy ears well-perked. Lean in...closer...

"Serial Killers!!!"


Your ears ringing? I thought so. You know what that sound is? Money. Cascading into your Vietnamese pot-bellied piggy bank, asshole! Until it bursts!

Forget waiting for the imminent information harvesting to begin and jump right in, ahead of everybody, because when you talk about the Internet there are very few certainties.

One of them is that serial killers spend more time on it than anybody else. And as hard as they might be to catch with blood on their hands, it is nowhere near as difficult to guess which websites they visit.

Think of it as the virtual equivalent of Eliot Ness knowing every bar and restaurant Al Capone goes to, where he lives, who he's fucking, what he says on the phone...but Al being too smart to get caught doing anything but evading taxes.

Now, if Mr. Ness had been in advertising, he would have simply hung billboards for cigarettes, booze, prostitutes, cigars, fine clothing, guns, roomy luxury sedans, etc. in all the stalls and booths and bars in all the joints he went to-- and retired on the proceeds.

So, bringing this all back home...if you know half the hits on Hannah Montana's website come from serial killers (which we will never know for sure, but is as good as fact), why not post an ad on the site that says something like this:

"To a good son, every day is Mother's Day...when was the last time you bought her flowers? Call 1-800-FLOWERS now--it's that easy!"

Boom. 500,000 bouquets of long-stem roses are sold. Every day.
(Yes, there are that many. At least.)

Similarly, every radio 'DJ' who creates and posts videos on youtube needs to admit who their audience is. Those pages should be PLASTERED with ads for overalls, workboots, the Jaclyn Smith Collection, poison, Shirley MacLaine biographies, trampy transvestite makeup, Tyler Perry movies, and used conversion vans.

Throw in the elementary ones like Crate & Barrel cookware ads on every page about boiling human brains...hacksaws/garbage bags/duct tape whenever somebody searches for 'human anatomy'...etc...and you see how easy and, more importantly, how lucrative this approach would be!

It just goes to show you, even though most people wouldn't like to admit it, when it comes to the Internet, the only sure things are porn and serial killers.

Write it down.
_


btw--everyone with an avatar on this site is a serial killer. see how many there are? and there are a lot more sites just as scary. like this one, for example (if you read the comments at the bottom).

WOW...

I was trolling the web today, looking up fax numbers for various entertainment industry, for an obscure, boring, work-related reason, and stumbled upon this amazing picture/article:


Trust me--you NEED to follow this link:

http://freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/892257/posts


Boy...they really showed her, huh?!

It's funny to think that anyone could have been so confident the second Iraq 'War' was ever going well, much less many people--many irate, smug assholes. Hmm...maybe it makes more sense than I thought...

I mean, I remember the infamously expensive Mission Accomplished PR-stunt, but even then I don't think anybody could have said the war 'went well.' People died--lots of people (mostly brown ones, though). People lied--lots of people (but they had good reasons for it...top secret ones...). And there was no plan for reconstruction.

The funny thing is that the administration, especially Karl Rove, regrets their awesome banner more than anything. They don't regret the sentiment behind it, the misplaced bravado, the text of his speech,, the $1,000,000+ spent to stage an unnecessary jet landing photo-op, or the war itself.

Why not? Because dumb people don't listen to what the President actually says, or follow stories long enough to realize the administration is full of shit and constantly catches itself in its own web of lies--but they CAN read a simple sign and then scratch their heads when bodies keep piling up.

And that's the kind of shit that can lose an election...

I don't give a candied fig where the frig your apple's been...

Something has been bothering me for a long time now.
Only one thing.
The fact that a certain kind of person (the Ned Flanders of the world, be they religious or otherwise) believes replacing a 'bad' word/phrase with a similar word/phrase renders is harmless.

Example:

"Where the frig is my friggin' G.I.Joe guy?"

I ask you, how is this any different than:

"Where the fuck is my fuckin' G.I. Joe guy?"

Is it not the intent that counts? Don't impressionable children react more to vocal tone and body language than to brass-tack semantics?

My own mother, whom I don't think has ever said a 'bad' word in her entire life, uses this word (frig/friggin) on occasion. More importantly, though, she and my father (who has uttered the occasional 'bad' word in my presence, though rarely in my mother's) allow my siblings to use this word, and many others like it, in their presence.

Whereas 'bad' words were never allowed. And yes, I did have my mouth washed out with soap once. And for those of you keeping track, when my younger brother said the exact same thing a few years later, the same punishment was unfairly not visited upon him. But I digress...

Keep in mind this is the same mother who taught me that "it's the thought that counts."

The same mother who taught me that results were not half as important as your intent.

Example:

Me: "Why am I being punished when I didn't kill him? He didn't even eat the poisoned Cheerios!"
Her: "But you wanted him to--you intended for him to die, and that is why you are sitting in the corner and will be grounded until college."

But the blame is not to rest solely on her shoulders. This odd, hypocritical situation exists because of the Western World's strange and continued adhesion to woefully-uncool Puritanical values. Certain words are deemed 'bad' and those are not to be uttered. Every other word, no matter how similar, is okay. Right and wrong. Black and white. Nonsensical.

As nonsensical as a religion that desires its flock to be fruitful and multiply, yet grossly restricts sexual activity. As nonsensical as a religion that celebrates the beauty of God's labors, yet forbids the appreciation of (non-religious) nude imagery.


"Go fly a kite!" = "Go fuck yourself!"
"Go suck an egg!" = "Go fuck yourself!"
"Go jump in a lake!" = "Go fuck yourself!"
"I don't give a hoot!" = "I don't give a shit!"
"I don't give a flying fig..." = "I don't give a flying fuck..."
"What the 'H' is going on?" = "What the hell is going on?"
"Goshdarnit!" = "Goddamnit!"
"Flippin" = "Fuckin"

I could go on forever. But I won't.
(at least not out loud)

These translations are widely known--in fact, that is the only reason these odd new phrases EXIST--to replace phrases people feel they cannot say.

So...at what point do these replacement phrases attain the same accursed value as the forbidden ones?

One would think immediately, but the correct answer is: never!

It's just easier that way. We are a nation ruled by hypocrites--why should this be surprising?

the fragile flower of youth

a beautiful young woman
is a precarious treasure
each passing day
her own worst enemy

_

Thought of the Day

It's always great, until it's bad.

Flyer's Chocolate

If you are a meth addict living in the Los Angeles area, you can make $900 by participating in a study of the drug's effects on the human brain.

Who would be crazy enough to participate in this study?

A meth head, that's who.

It would take a lot of powder-courage to waltz into a hospital--now more than ever a territory ruled by 'the man'--and admit to serial illegal drug abuse. It would not be hard for an enterprising police officer to simply follow all these subjects out of the hospital and bust them five minutes later, after they smoke rock in their car, the bathroom at Burger King, on their back porch, etc.

Risky. But $900 buys a hell of a lot of meth...

What is more interesting about this offer, as usual, is the moral question.

Meth is legendarily-addictive--shouldn't we be protecting these hopeless addicts from themselves, helping them to kick the habit, however difficult that may be? Instead, they are oddly rewarded for their gross misstep with a $900 payment.

Where do you think that $900 is going to be spent, in most cases?

I'll give you a hint--it won't be used to purchase baby formula or make the car payment. The baby lies motionless and stiff in its crib, forgotten, and the car was repossessed months ago.

Not only that, but I wager somebody out there in radioland heard the same commercial I did and had one of those once-in-a-lifetime, lightning-bolt ideas-- to start smoking/injecting meth, in order to participate in the study, thereby paying the rent. You know somebody did. Lord knows there are more than enough half-wits out there...

And so the study is now doubly questionable--rewarding and creating meth addicts, supplying them all with a cash infusion to purchase more meth.

I bet if I asked one of the doctors running the study, he/she would argue that if there were no lucrative payment, there would be no subjects. And without meth-brains to study, he/she would not be able to help...cure meth brain.

I bet if I asked the smartest doctor working on the study, he/she would turn from the cat scan machine, shrug his or her shoulders, and coolly say to me:

"Hey, it's better than having them running around stealing."

And he/she would be right. Nothing like a dose of realism.


Meth fact of the day, courtesy wikipedia.org:

"One of the earliest uses of methamphetamine was during World War II when the German military dispensed it under the trade name Pervitin. It was widely distributed across rank and division, from elite forces to tank crews and aircraft personnel. Chocolates dosed with methamphetamine were known as Fliegerschokolade ("flyer's chocolate") when given to pilots, or Panzerschokolade ("tanker's chocolate") when given to tank crews. From 1942 until his death in 1945, Adolf Hitler was given frequent intravenous injections of methamphetamine by his personal physician, Theodor Morell as a treatment for depression and fatigue. It is possible that it was used to treat Hitler's speculated Parkinson's disease, or that his Parkinson-like symptoms which developed from 1940 onwards were related to use of methamphetamine."

The Degradation of Language, the Decline of an Empire

With the appalling lack of interpersonal communication between people younger than age 22 or so, the explosion of text-based cellular and internet communication--each complete with its own dialect--along with the growing prevalence of Spanish and other 'invasive' languages, and the long-gestating plague of literature-aversion, it should come as no surprise to you that English is firmly on the downslope of prominence; we are now slowly sliding down the backside of a bell-curve, much like the once almighty Dollar. Not that language is tied to the dollar, but, in this instance, the debilitating cracks in each institution can be traced back to the same source: Greed.

America during its heyday was little more than a giant, relentless steam engine, fueled by the combustion of millions of impoverished dreamseekers. Cheap labor, plentiful resources, no rules except the ones we make and the ones we break. Heroes abounded. Possibilities were limitless. A ripe chance for utopia, but man cannot protect himself from himself. It is his fatal weakness.


We Americans started out with plenty of space to flex the old muscles, plenty of opportunity to start things over, and plenty of grand ideas. We exploded onto the world stage as the most feared and loved nation on Earth. As Machiavelli predicted, we have had it well for quite some time now as a result.

But it is easy to become gluttonous.

That sentence is acceptable now, in published material, whereas I was marked down for opening a sentence with 'but' in school. Colloquialisms are now in the dictionary. Symbols are acceptable substitutes for letters. Abbreviations are the norm. Few read books. People meet their spouses via computers.

Why? Because we are too busy. Too busy to call somebody, so we'll just text them, or check their Facebook status to see whether they had any stated plans that evening. Too busy to write complete words when we do.

Why are we so busy? Because Americans now are working longer hours than their fathers, for less money and less benefits. The '50s dream of a computer-aided 10-hour work week have been vaporized by the computer-aided 70-hour work week. There's more money in that, it turns out.

When is there ever enough, when there's always more? More money to be made, more beauties to ravish, more enemies to destroy, more newcomers swiping at that luscious pie on the windowsill, or at least wanting to, waiting to. A smart giant chooses his battles carefully, however, and does not try to destroy everything and everybody else--he fools them into thinking they are in a great position, in control.

Today France is wealthy, powerful, and one of the most prideful countries in the world, despite the fact that their heyday is long-since buried. This is so only because we allowed it. We learned from our study of the Romans that it is far too difficult to unify and govern far-flung territories; it is much better to let them take care of themselves, provided they remain an ally, let us trade with them, and rubber stamp all of our decisions with regard to global policy.

Besides, if we destroyed France, where would we vacation? DisneyFrance comes complete with an Eiffel Tower, a French Quarter, crepes, baguettes, all the stockinged legs you could shake a stick at, and a nation of voluntary servants at every luxurious resort, restaurant, bar, and brothel. We had to bring our own Starbucks, though. And Burger King. And KFC. And Coca-Cola. And Wrigley's Gum. And MTV. And movies. And music. Nothing like a taste of home.

The Romans used swords and spears; we Americans wielded our culture as a weapon, and the world wept at our feet. Oh, sure, we had military might as well, but not so much that we could have coated the globe and, even if we had, it's difficult, costly, and time-consuming to take over your enemies/allies with guns--a sneak attack is far more subtle and strategic.

The world was ours because we allowed the other nations to operate under the impression they were autonomous, when in fact we pulled the strings. They appeased us, we gave them money. They gave us money, we gave them our goods. We acted, our enemies reacted as planned. The populace elected a ruler we didn't like, we funded guerrilla armies to place a more 'likable' candidate in office. That candidate got a little power hungry, we made him disappear.

This method of world domination was extremely successful in building the United States as the most powerful empire in history. Yet here we are today with few allies, more enemies, a trade deficit, declining real wages, pervasive ignorance, an artistic vacuum, a marketplace ruled by teenagers, a fractured language, a fragile and obese population, a dwindling army occupied on two fronts...our poisonous culture has proved too effective a weapon; it has even destroyed its creator.

The Roman Empire crumbled because it got too big for its britches, and to think America is any different is dishonest--we have over-stayed our welcome in the Imperial Lavatory, as had the Greeks before them, the Ottomans, Spanish, British, and French after them.

Although our method was unique, the result is the same--our reach has become too vast, our enemies too numerous, our greed too compromising, our citizens too wealthy, obese, clueless, and soft. We are the prized hog at the county fair, and every passerby drools in anticipation of our demise.

The question remains--did we stink it up a bit too much in here for the others?

Most intelligent Americans get their news from comedians. So do kids, if they get it at all. Children play video games instead of sports. Junk food is their food. They speak however they like, like. They don't shun the establishment--they ignore it completely, except when they listen to and watch the made-for-the-masses politico-corporate brainwashing drivel that fills our radio stations and our cinemas. They have no time or desire to work to find better material and so they unwittingly buy into the scatterbrained propaganda of the ruling class.

Parents let their kids read whatever they want to read and do whatever they want to do. Parents yell and scream a lot, but eventually surrender. Parents watch Two and a Half Men instead of the news. Parents eat and drink and smoke and drug their problems away. Parents have to pay their slaves these days, and pay their servants even more. Parents buy a lavishly-advertised image and receive a flimsy product produced by slave-wage drones half a world away. Parents abhor the behavior of their offspring. Parents are aware that things are changing and fight it, which only makes it worse.

Arnold Schwarzennegger is the governor of California. We market video games to grown men and music and books to teenage girls. There are more lawyers than farmers. We spend more than we earn. The most successful movies are based on comic books, teen fiction, and defunct television shows. To compare our Presidents to Emperors, especially these days, is hardly a stretch. The Romans used democracy as an ingenious smokescreen, while increasing the power of the oligarchy; so do we.


Like Latin and French, English has had a spell as lingua franca. What's next? Mandarin? Cantonese? Hindi? How long will it be before English is no longer the official language of our own country, replaced by the dialect of peasants, as Latin fell victim to Italian? Or will we speak Spanish? Hindi? Will English one day become a quaint ancestral language, maintained only in the homes of the poisonously-conservative bourgeoisie?

Like a rocket with an empty booster, our acceleration has ceased; we are now powerless as to our fate. We will exit gracefully, I hope, as Italy and France before us. We will concentrate our efforts on more important things than warfare and mass-production. We will learn to make the perfect cappuccino, bake the perfect loaf of bread, cook the perfect meal, tailor the perfect clothes, cultivate the perfect wine, develop an interest in philosophy, and talk ourselves to death in a cafe off the square, as our currency plummets and other countries fight each other.

It's the political equivalent of a retirement home.

Well, who is waiting in the wings, willing to duke it out for the top spot? Who will we Americans have the pleasure to serve in our boutiques, cafes, galleries, and brothels? Will China have a go of it? India? The E.U?

They still have time, mind you--plenty of time. Our demise will not be sudden. There are still people in the world who are able to speak Latin, and French clearly isn't going anywhere anytime soon. Just as the Roman Empire survived the sack of Rome by moving the capital to Istanbul, where it carried on for 900 more years, our fall will be cushioned by centuries of mediocrity and flattery. Our son, as it were, has granted us the privilege of dying in solitude, while preparing to take the reins.

But what sort of playground will this new power acquire? How long will their tenure last before mankind is plunged into darkness and barbarism once more? A fitting final act for the comedy that would make anyone smile.

The Earth is ill. Pollution of the air, land, and sea. Overextraction of resources. Eradication of flora and fauna. Destruction of the ozone. Unpredictable, severe weather. Catastrophic overpopulation.

We will milk this beast to death, by Jove! And why not--that's what it's there for! There's plenty more where that came from, and if there's not, then you should have gotten there first! It was delicious!


The Earth will recover, as it always has, but that will be long after man brings about its own demise. So who cares that when my nephew is my age he will watch a rapper or valley girl deliver the news, in their underwear, in ten-second bursts on his phone? Who cares that he might never read a book from start to finish? Who cares that he might have sex exclusively virtually? Who cares that he might have sex with a thousand women? Who cares that at some point he might have a microchip implanted in his body? Who cares that in his lifetime we will run out of oil? Who cares that he might see nations go to war over drinking water?

Nobody cares, because we have all given up, given in to the idea that we just want to lay around an eat and drink and fornicate while somebody else does all the work for a change. We let ourselves be ruled by power-hungry lunatics, who unwittingly cultivate our ruin. We have accepted our demise, even if we are not all yet aware of it. We work toward our demise each day, because it's easier than constantly striving for better. We eat another donut instead of the dangling carrot, because it tastes better. We nap, rather than fight.

Don't get me wrong--I am not some crazed Conservative aiming to right the ship and fight to keep America on top. Nor am I a wacky Liberal who is naive enough to think the crazy train can be turned around. On the contrary, I simply enjoy watching fate take its course, watching this comedy unfold. After all, I have a pretty good seat, and as long as the wine keeps flowing, I'll die with my eyes open and a smile on my face, wishing I could stay until the end.

It's Just So Hard to Keep a Good Slave These Days...

An actual email a friend of mine received this week:


"Hey everyone,
Quick email to let you know that my beloved assistant, Francine, is leaving me to do bigger and better things – like taking an awesome job at #$%* in digital media. So, I’m looking for someone to replace her. If you know of anyone please send her the resume – I need someone who’s going to give minimum 1 year commitment, can work really long hours, read scripts at night and weekends, run an office, admin duties as well as creative, and have some knowledge of writers, directors, producers and more importantly agency assistant contacts. Francine will do the preliminary interviews for me. Please be warned this is not a cake job – Francine can explain how exhausting the reading can get as well as assisting two execs.
Thanks,
Pietro"


Hmmmm...and let me read between the lines here--the pay is shit, right?
Sounds perfect!!!
I just really want to work in Hollywood!
With all the stars!

_

Gotta Love A Crazy Bitch

So, Leona Helmsley, who married her way into a multi-billion-dollar real estate empire only to become one of the most infamous bitches of our time (figure that out...), is still causing trouble almost a year after her death.

The woman notorious for her assertion "we don't pay taxes--only the little people pay taxes," as well as for her subsequent 19-month stint in prison on charges of tax evasion, not only left $12 million to her dog, Trouble (pictured above), but also, it turns out, left the bulk of her $5-8 billion estate to a charitable trust that is required to spend that money on dogs.

In a mission statement attached to her will, Helmsley laid out her goals for the vast fortune she would leave behind.

"The first goal was to help indigent people, the second to provide for the care and welfare of dogs. A year later...she deleted the first goal." (courtesy nytimes.com)

Very wise--I don't care what anybody says, dogs are more important than humans. The indigent people of the world thank you, Ms. Helmsley, wherever you are (lying lifeless in a limestone mausoleum on 3/4 of an acre in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Westchester, New York, which is to be acid-washed once a year, according to her will).


Now, all this stupid bullshit aside, I find it interesting that one's last wishes, which seem in this case to be very clearly stated, can still be legally altered.

A judge in New York has already reduced Trouble's inheritance from $12 million to $2 million. The same judge has also given $10 million dollars to two grandchildren deliberately left nothing in the will. Talks are already underway as to how best circumvent Helmsley's mission statement, in order to spend money on projects unrelated to dogs.

As much as I agree that the money could go to much better causes--such as indigent people, education, conservation--the fact of the matter is that this was not her choice. Her choice was to spend the money on dogs. So...why is it even up for discussion? Why is there even a 'case,' as it were? Strange...

I mean, if she wanted to buy $46-worth of scratch-offs for every one of the 172 million estimated pet dogs in the world...who are we to stop her?


Bonus -- My favorite Leona Helmsley story:

"On March 31, 1982, Leona's only child, Jay Panzirer, died of a heart attack. Leona sued her son's estate for money and property that she claimed he had borrowed; Mimi, her son's widow, (who lived in a property Leona owned) received an eviction notice. Mimi later said the legal expenses wiped her out and 'to this day I don't know why they did it.'" (courtesy wikipedia.org)

Mamma Mia!

Gotta love it when a professionally-designed (and heinously ugly) poster for a multi-million-dollar movie* misspells an actress' name.

I didn't have to check imdb.com to see that her name really is ChriStine Baranski.
But I did.
And it is.

And she's scary looking, by the way.
And needs a new P.R. rep...

In other news, Mamma Mia--despite its inherent shittiness--will always have a special place in my heart.

Why? Because when I lived (for a month) at the Mandalay Bay Resort & Casino in beautiful Las Vegas, Nevada, I used to wake up every morning to the pungent smell of burning tobacco and the equally-pungent tunes of the promo for the Mamma Mia musical.

As if being hungover, underslept, and living in Vegas wasn't enough to make me want to jump out the window already...

The musical--based on, and incorporating, the tunes of ABBA, if you can believe it--was playing in a dedicated theater within the hotel and, therefore, one channel on our TV was devoted entirely to playing a promo for it in a continuous, unending, eternal, infinite loop.

My roommate would watch this channel for hours on end, seeing how long he could stand it; his tolerance was at the same time impressive and criminal.

And so, to Chainsaw Chuck Morton in Chicago--I know you been waitin' for this joint to drop for a long minute now, my man. Here you go--eat it up. You don't even wanna know the strings I had to pull to get this milk dud made...



*Believe it or not, this movie somehow cost $65 million to make, according to several websites I checked, including this one. Wow. Were the crew's water bottles made of solid gold?

_

Say No More!

Logjammin'

"Largest Log Jam in the World---It took 150 lumberjacks, five teams of horses, and one steam engine SIX MONTHS to break up this log jam on the Mississippi River in 1894. Located near Little Falls, Minnesota, the log jam was almost SEVEN MILES LONG, a half-mile wide, and 60 feet thick in most places. It was estimated to contain over 4 billion feet of lumber."

Really makes ya think, don't it?

When was the last time you spent six months doing anything?

And masturbating doesn't count...

-

Further fascinating reading:

"Log jams occurred at places where the water was shallow, or where there were bends in the rivers. The river drivers did their best to keep the logs moving, but with thousands of logs, it was hard to stop a jam once it started.

"Log jams were broken by either using dynamite, or by digging through the pile until they got to the key log. The key log was the one log that was holding the entire jam back. It could be many feet inside a log jam, making it very dangerous to remove.

"Many lumberjacks, sometimes five or six at a time, were killed while removing these jams. Due to the high danger associated with river driving, the river drivers were the most highly skilled, and the most highly respected men in the logging camps.

"They were able to ride the logs through rapids, fast water, even dams built in the rivers (dams were sometimes necessary for the water to be deep enough to transport the logs). Because the river driver's work was the most dangerous in the camp, they were the most highly paid.

"For a days work, they were paid anywhere from seventy-five cents to a dollar."


photo/info courtesy of logrolling.org

_

I Wonder...

how quiet the theater was when The Love Guru was first screened for Paramount executives, upon completion.

Or did they pipe in a laugh track to avoid embarrassment?

There is Hope After All

Proof Mankind Loves to Hasten its Own Demise:

1. The Love Guru was conceived.
2. The Love Guru was successfully pitched to a studio.
3. The Love Guru was written.
4. The Love Guru was green-lit for production.
5. The Love Guru was cast--with Ben Kingsley & Stephen Colbert, no less.
6. The Love Guru was filmed.
7. The Love Guru was edited.
8. The Love Guru was juiced up with music by George S. Clinton
9. The Love Guru was advertised everywhere--even inside my own ass, I hear.
10. The Love Guru was allowed to premiere on over 3000 screens.

At no point along this two-year-plus journey did anybody find it in their hearts to tell Mike Myers this project is one of the worst they'd ever heard of, much less seen or been a part of.

Instead, everybody kept their head down and their comments to themselves--who are they to second-guess Mr. Austin Powers?

And so, the idiots at Paramount spent $62 million to shoot it, and $9 googolplex billion to promote it. Who knows how many good movies got pushed to the dirt to ensure this turd could fill 10% of all the movie screens in America, land of promise.

To put that into perspective, a friend of mine recently made a feature film and was lucky enough to have it purchased by a distributor--a big deal for a first-time filmmaker.

His movie will premiere on 10 screens. Ten.

So, why is there hope?

Because The Love Guru only made $13,907,130 -- the 50th worst opening ever, for movies playing on more than 3000 screens. Ha! Let's hope he arranged to get all his money on the back end...

Although, assuming an average ticket price of $8.00, it still is troubling to know that 1,738,392 people actually paid to go see it. His family can't be that big...

What Does It Take to Become a Woman?

In these trying times, which are so trying for everybody but rich people, oil companies, and Norwegians, it is easy to forget how simple life can be sometimes.

For example, ever wonder how a little girl becomes a woman?

Well, chuckle-chuckle, it doesn't happen overnight, I assure you.

In fact, according to scientists, the process takes years. Those lovable little females go through such subtle changes it can sometimes be hard for the layman to notice through that delightful parental beer/white-zinfandel haze.

Yet, at the same time, the journey itself, refined over millennia by a mythical overlord, is deceptively simple and can be broken down into easily-identifiable stages.

Leave it to the Canadians to figure it out!

The Stages of Womanhood

Age 5-6 ------- Sparks
Oh, look at the babies with their blankets!

Age 7-8 ------- Brownies
So hot right now.

Age 9-11 ------- Guides
This is when most of the pretty girls disappear.

Age 12-14 ----- Pathfinders

Too ugly/unfriendly to get any closer, which is fine.

Age 15-17+ ---- Rangers
Total loss of fashion sense, bodily coordination, and hope.

Age 18+ ------- Women!
Finally, the life they've always dreamed of!

Don't believe me? Check it out for yourself!
_

Speaking of Bobblehead Dolls...

As much as I love him--and that's more than you can ever know, since you cannot even begin to understand the depth of our love--let it be known that Elton John travels with a large rolling road case full of assorted bobblehead dolls he has collected over the years.

When Elton's in town for a show--in this case an elaborate corporate 'birthday event' (he whores himself out at more private events than you would care to know, more than Jeremy Piven even!)--an 'attractive, young male P.A.' is chosen as liason between Elton's traveling crew and the local production team.


One of this sexyman's responsibilities is to arrange Elton's 100+ bobblehead dolls around the television set in his room backstage. This TV must be hooked up to a satellite system that broadcasts Atlanta Braves games, because Elton has for some reason lived in Atlanta for quite some time now, and has become probably the only British baseball fan in the world.

The bobblehead dolls are all to be arranged facing the couch.

Do you think you've been too famous for too long when you begin to need an audience to watch TV?

Wink Martindale

This is not about Wink Martindale, the self-proclaimed god of game show hosting, who was so 'good' at it that he hosted 15 different game shows.

[Hint: Good game show hosts host one game show for most of their lives (Bob Barker, Alex Trebeck, Pat Sajak)]

But you try telling his eager, 50+ year-old, walking-Wink-historian manservant that. He'll just smile and give you a Wink bobblehead doll. Which, oddly, I still have sitting in my office right now, unwrapped, so that its value will appreciate handsomely in the coming years, skyrocket upon his imminent death, and eventually afford me a fun-size bag of Peanut M&Ms I can totally forget eating only five seconds after doing so.


Incidentally, according to his own, carefully-controlled-I'm-sure wikipedia entry, the following indescribably-juicy tidbit has leaked, for the moment:

"The May 25, 2008 'Sag Harbor Study' (a poll taken on New York State's Long Island) compared the social relevance of game show hosts in the 21st century to what many consider the 'golden years' of game shows – 1973 through the early 1980s. Precisely 25% of all respondents given zero category-specific context were unable to identify 'Wink Martindale' as a person of any significance."

Wow. I guess you can post anything you want on Wink Martindale's page--after hours (6pm-5am, when everyone who knows Wink is visiting Sleepytown, if you know what I mean).

But this is not about Wink Martindale.
Rather, this is just an awkward prelude to the following question:

Why do old men* wink so much?

I know that 97% of the time it's not sexual, so it's not like I'm creeped out by it on that front; it's just weird that they are so out of touch with the world that they think it's cool to wink after every other sentence.

Can't humor stand on its own? Can't the piss just be taken, without the thief needing to so brazenly laying claim? Does every utterance always have to be emphasized? Are they so afraid anybody more than five years younger than them will be unable to work their way through the uncomplicated, indelicate, brick-shithouse innuendos they sling like so much hash?

How do you even respond to a wink? Do you have to wink back? Can you punch the winker in the face? Or is it enough to just solemnly nod, avoiding all eye contact? I'm gonna try that.

Or maybe I'll just avoid old men. That'll be easier.


*When speaking about old men, I, of course, am actually only referring to some old men. But in defense, there sure are a hell of a lot of them.
_

Hey, hey, we're the Monkids!

So, I read something in Radar today, in one of the tiny sidebars, that indirectly informed me that a term exists for a monkey who was raised as a child by an infertile human couple, unlikely parents who volunteer for the privilege.

Monkey + Kid = Monkid

Two Things Pop Into My Head:

1. Who are these people? Who is this desperate for love? Why don't don't they just start swinging or something, and spending their relatively-inordinate free time a bit more wisely?

2. I wonder what would happen if one of these monkids went to high school in suburban Chicago? I wonder if he would 'fit in,' if he'd be good at sports, if the popular girl will want to bang him, if he would even have a challenger for Senior Class President...